


Middle-Earth: Shadow of Whore

by salarta



Category: Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Games), Middle-earth: Shadow of War (Video Games), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Anal, Anal Sex, Balrogs, Body Hair, Body Modification, Bukkake, Cock Appraisal, Corruption, Decay, Defiled Relics, Dominance, Drunkenness, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fetish, Filthy, Gangbang, Giant sex, Giants, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Lust, Magic, Magical Hot Vagina, Master/Slave, Mounted, Multi, Nipple Piercings, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Oral Sex, Other, Piercings, Scents & Smells, Submission, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, Transformation, Verbal Humiliation, failure - Freeform, greed - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 07:20:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17762333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salarta/pseuds/salarta
Summary: Women from Middle-Earth: Shadow of War succumb to dark fates. Currently only Carnan and Idril. Some tags only apply to one chapter.





	1. A Stench on Carnan

**Author's Note:**

> Carnan chapter got a lot more interest than I was expecting, and now that I've made an Idril chapter, figure it's time to spread it to AO3. If you have tag suggestions I missed, please share.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carnan is defeated by Zog, who corrupts and humiliates her as she becomes his slave.

Flames raged in the grass. Smoke blotted out the sky. Bare branches shook on foul winds. Noxious black fog flowed down putrid rivers. Only husks of bark remained for trees, their insides burned away into husks where all manner of nasty beasts now dwelled.

This was the Forest of Carnan, and it had changed. Any who ventured inside could taste it in the water. Feel it in the earth. Smell it in the air. Its old bounty was lost, replaced a new Carnan. Dull. Decayed. Stinking. The Free Peoples of Middle-Earth would have wept at the sight of this woodland abattoir, but it was not meant for them. It was meant for one creature, an Uruk who approached the Great Tree flanked by his Orc torchbearers. As the tree's last vines withered away to blight and fire, this Uruk gazed into the massive cavern they revealed and bellowed his triumphant screed.

"Landfilth! You have been beaten. My army walks your lands. My magic consumes everything within your reach. You have nowhere to go and no power left to resist. Come out and surrender yourself to your new master, Zog the Eternal!"

The land trembled. Thud. Thud. Thud. The untrained ear might have mistaken it for a mere earthquake if not for its regular beat. Orcs stumbled and fell, clutching their torches, swords and spears.

Soon, the silhouette of a lank, pitiable figure darkened the Great Tree's doorstep. Green fingers curled around the cavern's edges. Then a fresh, woody scent issued forth, pushing back the rank odor of Zog's magics. The grand unveiling lasted several minutes, long enough to bore even the sluggish Ents, but when Zog's prize came into view? Oh how he smiled.

Carnan head drooped in shame. Past her bright and smooth chlorophyll complexion, her crown already showed its rot. Dessicated tendrils. Cracked, weathered shoots of bark. Leaves hung off her body, all pale green and shriveled. Only a small spark of life lingered in her face, and as she dropped to her knees, she breathed it out her bulbous lips. A sweet aroma. Pervasive, perfumed with a cocktail of roses, lilacs, peonies and many other fragrant flowers.

That, too, would change.

"You wretched Uruk," Carnan lamented. "You have ruin-ed me."

"Yes I have!" Zog proudly announced. "Do you know how I did it? Cause you're so bloody stupid! Why would I settle on Tar Goroth when I can conquer the thing that beat it?"

Carnan couldn't deny this - and not because he wielded power of her. She lived for millennia, felled waves of Orcs and the mightiest Balrog alike. She protected her sacred forest with creation itself, forming caragors, graugs and drakes out of leaf, petal, root and spear. Yet, she did not foresee the schemes of this dwimmer-crafty necromancer. For all her experience and might, one small squishy Uruk outsmarted her. 

She had a right to be outraged and defiant. But she could not deny what she knew. It wasn't in her nature.

"You speak true. Sallow-brained, I was. Bog-sighted by my hubris. You have earned your victory. End me."

Zog looked into Carnan's eyes. Those lush, radiant, verdant eyes as big as his head. And he laughed. He laughed as she flinched, fearing a blow from one of his spears. "End you? Oh no. When I said I conquered you, I meant I _conquered_ you. I get to tame more than your lands today."

Carnan snarled. Far less intimidating than mere days ago. "You wish to make me your puppet. A slave to your will. A pet that must obey your commands."

"I do. Now say the words. Complete the ritual. Bind your soul to me!"

Zog raised his hand over Carnan's mouth. As the mighty spirit exhaled, her power drained into Zog's glowing palm. First green and light. Then brown, dark. Her pleasant, soothing, airy sigh corroded until it reeked with the pungence of a compost heap. As her new foulness consumed the last hints of lilac, she spoke his words.

"Defile-ed is the land. Curse-ed is the maker. Fair to foul, bounty to blight, Spirit of Carnan serves Zog the Eternal."

A rush of wind. Crebain flapped and squawked. Black fumes rose through cracks in Carnan's body as she moaned out a single gust of the thick nasty miasma. It was done. _She_ was done. The independent spirit of the woods existed no longer. In her place knelt a servant of Zog. When her breath-smog dispersed, Zog stood a champion amongst his cheering throng, who he turned and faced to savor his moment.

"Take a look, lads. Where Sauron fails, Zog succeeds. I have turned these once thriving woods into a wasteland that bows to my whims. Isn't that right, tree whore?"

Carnan let Zog lean back against her cheek. Because she had to. Because she must. Because like a good servant, she lived for his comfort and amusement above her own. Wincing as he pinched her giant nostril, she answered his question.

"Yes, master. Carnan is putrid and rotting tree whore. How may Carnan serve master?" 

The Orcs' joy seasoned Carnan's shame. Raucous and wild, they delayed the proceedings with their noise - though Zog found some fun in the waiting. He smeared the filth of his boots along her plump lower lip. He scraped his claws down the long bridge of her nose. When he tugged on her wispy eyelashes, Carnan scowled and muttered soft curses under her rancid breath, but she did not move. She did not resist. She was an avatar for him to abuse in _any way_ he wished, even if only as a means for him to pass the time.

Finally, Zog's army calmed. He spoke again. "I'm very glad you asked, Carnan. You may be fallen, but you're still a long way from showing it. And besides, you need to reward my followers for helping me claim you."

Of the crowd, one Orc dared to ask, "The pit?"

"The pit!"

Another roar of excitement erupted from the horde. Lavishing in their praise, Zog pushed himself off Carnan's cheek and bade her to follow.

Slow and crawling. Never before had Carnan suffered the indignity of moving at another creature's pace. She would have leapt and bound through fields, or soared high in the sky at fearsome speeds, at her own behest. Starting today, she carried on as they asked. Shuffling behind their plodding steps.

Orcs lined both sides of her path. Like a parade. A parade presenting the weak, stupid abomination Zog owned. They waved their implements with glee, shouted insults in Black Speech and the language of man. She expected a gauntlet when she saw axes, but they never fell upon her. Not a single crooked branch took a blow. Such was their respect for Zog.

Then they stopped. From her lowly place on all fours, Carnan peered at the backs of many Orc heads blocking her view. For the first time in her existence, dread consumed the Spirit of Carnan. She found good reason for that dread as soon as the throng parted.

A hole. A giant hole. Right in the middle of her forest. It stretched long, wide and likely deep. Likely, because she could not see how far down it went. The Orcs had filled it with a bubbling, boiling soup of the nastiest muck to ever stain her nostrils. She would have plugged them if Zog permitted.

He did not. Instead, he turned to his pet. "Here we are. One hot, dirty muck bath ready and waiting just for you. What do you think?"

One look at the cesspool and her face contorted in disgust. A crinkling between her eyebrows and frown upon her lips added hard edges to her soft features. The stench assaulted her as she inhaled a mighty whiff of the squalid brew and gagged.

She glared, powerless, at the necromancer. "It stinks of death. Make-es me retch. This bath would ruin Carnan forever."

"That's the idea, landfilth. Get in."

With those two simple words, Carnan splashed into the pit. Bubbles rose to the surface as she sank, popping near her waist, around her shoulders, in her face. She scrunched her nose and recoiled at the awful smell.

"This no way to treat Carnan. Carnan is great spirit of forest. Thrives on life and light."

" _Carnan_ will wallow in that pit until I tell her she can come out. Now shut up, lie back and think of Zog."

It pained and enraged Carnan how this pitiful little monster could control her so deeply. The thought of his naked form flitted all over her ravaged mind. His rough grey goatee. His baleful yellow eyes. His jagged teeth. Lower, his turgid cock flapped between beefy legs of flesh. Sap swelled on her grassy tongue, rolling out the corners of her mouth, and that's when she realized what kind of powerful hold he had over her.

She loved him. She hated him. She wanted to please him. She wanted to kill him. Dual passions roiled for dominance, one natural and fierce, the other pathetic and false. She could tell them apart, but for how long? How long until Zog snuffed out that last bit of light and turned her into his mewling arboreal slut?

These feelings tormented the once mighty Carnan as she surrendered herself to the pit.

At first, she floated. Her will may have succumbed to Zog, but her woody body remained unspoiled. It defied the depths to hover like pond scum. Yet it would not last. Just when it looked as though she might happily fail her master's latest command, Carnan heard a sound so dreadful and humiliating for one such as she, it made her cringe from gnarled crown to spindly toe. 

A sickly squelch. Inside her long skirt, between her hardy thighs, trapped air hissed free. It echoed across the wasteland. Announced its release for all to hear. Along with it, Carnan bellowed the loudest, horniest moan her big slutty mouth could muster. A tickle of pleasure ebbed along the edges of her crevice of a cunt, as those edges softened to the pit's acidic waste.

It had begun. Her fall. And right in the middle, they laughed at her. Zog's followers laughed, drowning out the occasional wheeze and whistle spewing from her small tree trunk tits. She sank, sank, sank, the pit's surface frothing with a steady stream of her descent into foulness.

A deeper viridian shade tinged her poor cheeks. For all her existence, Carnan never felt the need to defend her honor. She had _magic_. She had _power_. Lower creatures did not merit concern from one made of tree and beast. Until today. Today she yearned for respect. 

Her teeth chittered as she quavered denial. "This filth does not please Carnan! Carnan wishes for root and sun, not nasty Orc sludge."

"Hear that, boys? She thinks she's too good for us," shouted a commander.

"Maybe we're too good for her! Did she ever think of that?" a sniveling Worm jeered.

"I bet she would fuck a graug if she could. Unasked. That's how bad she needs a little cock in her burning bush."

Their insults never ended. Over and over, they assaulted her leafy ears until a flood of the viscous brown gunk turned their verbal jests into a slew of jumbled murmurs. Rarely, she picked up choice words. Scumslut. Muck raker. A litany of abuse persisted, but most of it landed beyond her senses.

That left her lying there. Still. Eyes darting back and forth at the encroaching sludge. It rose in her periphery, a tide of corruption coming to consume her. It rolled inch by inch over her chlorophyll skin. It claimed her shoulders, then her neck. She clamped her eyes shut, holding her breath for the final submersion... when she stopped. Fearfully, she peeked out at the world around her.

Calm. Too calm. If Orcs failed at anything, it was patience. They lacked the capacity to wait for a chance to have their fun. Yet they waited. They watched, staring at her from afar. It gave her time to think. Slowly, realization dawned on her.

Her face was an island. Verdant and smooth, it bobbed on the surface as slimy waters lapped against its shores. From her jutting rock of a nose to stinking pit of a mouth, she bore landmarks clearly defining her as the rotting Isle of Carnan.

This humiliation alone would have satisfied most conquerors. Reducing Carnan from a pervasive spirit who wandered as she pleased to a tiny festering landmass submerged in noxious grunge brought plenty of fame. And when he had no use for her, Zog would see to it that Carnan spent her time in this shameful state of repose. Visited and used by his men. Mocked, stepped on, abused to remind the spirit of her rightful place beneath their heels.

He had greater plans for Carnan. But they required a little time to prepare.

No sense in making his men wait to bask in the thrills of their new island toy.

"Have at her, boys!"

What came next was barbarism. They invaded Carnan. The Orcs jumped the moat and trampled her face underfoot, sharp hard boots digging into her skin. Mud smeared across the fleshy green surface of her lands while the Orcs' weight mashed the pulp beneath. Her veins bulged with darkened sap, growing thicker, pronounced, reacting to her pain and frustration. 

A fwoosh of magic cleared the muck from her submerged ears. She could hear them. Their garbled cries and clamor became known to her again, in time to hear their petty arguing.

"I've got her mouth."

"No, _I've_ got her mouth!"

"Nobody touch her eyebrows, they're mine."

Despite the smallness of her island face, the Orcs did what happened with all creatures who deigned themselves rulers of new territory: they fought for dominion. Brogg claimed her forehead. Her right eye belonged to Pûg. Torz took the indent above her lips, insisting that his fetish for the basin meant only he had a right to fill it with his splooge.

Carnan hoped against hope that the Orcs would kill each other off during this lower creature squabbling, but no such luck. They found the prize too great. As they organized their efforts, Carnan's focus shifted to her body.

It burned. The sludge sizzled against her dendroidal dress, melting rugged lianas and hard wood, leaving only a thin film to hold them on her soft naked curves. Her shoulders felt so bare, her skirt so loose... and this was merely the beginning. The acidic waste seeped into every fiber of her fibers and tainted them. Changed them. Corruption tingled throughout her battered spirit, reducing its shape and substance into something Zog could work with. Something he could mold into the indecent, humiliating form he felt Carnan deserved.

While Zog's magics worked below, his army worked above. A ring of Orcs surrounded her lips. Eager. Waiting. Cocks out.

"Please, have mercy on Carnan," she begged. "Befoul-ed is my body. My spirit, broken. Carnan suffers enough without tasting Orc seed."

The ring leader answered with the brevity of wit Orcs were known for. "Open up, landfilth."

She sighed mournfully. "As you wish, master."

Like an ancient elven door, Carnan's lips parted to the magic words. They stretched long and wide, unveiling a dark abyss where all manner of foul offerings might disappear. The Orcs peered inside and pondered these depths. The stinking hole quivered, threatening eruption, but nothing ever spewed forth to claim them. Not a single vine shot out like the ones that murdered their brethren-in-arms days ago.

They were safe. They could throw in anything they wished and Carnan had to accept. Anything. Rushed to excitement by this knowledge, they furiously pumped their hard pricks. A chorus of wanking took the place of trash talk and big boasts - because their dicks did the talking for them. Squelch, squish, shlup, these sounds announced their arousal and contempt for the natural she-slut beneath them better than any Black Speech.

No one knew this more than Carnan herself. Downwind, she picked up huge steamy whiffs of their musk. She would have breathed through her mouth if able, but it risked too many Orc lives. One sharp inhale had enough power to suck them into her lair. That, above all, was not allowed. As their plaything, their cumdump, their leafy bitch, she had a duty to uphold. Their welfare meant more than her dignity.

Thus defeated, she wilted at the scent. Decay yellowed from the tip of her big nose and down the rim of her nostrils to the curved base where they met her lurid cheeks. The stress of her shaming made her face veins throb. This drew ever more attention to her twitching eye, where another couple Orcs brushed sticky pre-cum into her lashes. Like the rangers of Gondor, these creatures found a use for every part of her ailing body. 

Yet, none of the abuse she weathered compared to the horror lying above and around her.

She stared up into the darkness of a smoke-blackened sky. These trees had once belonged to her. They extended her reach, brought power and control, offered gifts of sight and sound for her domain. Now all she felt from them was death. Stiff gusts loosened weak bark. Deep roots shriveled under poisoned earth. Rot-blighted fruit lay scattered on the ground where it could poison any woodland fauna foolish enough to take a bite. 

She no longer heard the cry of the forests, the scream of the rivers. Instead, she felt her body tingling within the pit's fetid ooze. The gunk sloshed across her skin, drawing out deep, dark, depraved pleasures of mortal flesh - and that's when she realized what changes the dwimmer-crafty necromancer wrought.

Fair to foul. Bounty to blight. Parts of her decayed. Parts of her shrank. Parts of her grew. One of those parts expanded at rapid pace, far faster than she could withstand. Pressure built inside her prison of a shabby dress. Something needed release. Something thick. Heavy. Full. She wheezed to a newfound tightness in her chest. She couldn't breathe. It defied all logic in the nature of forest spirits, but then, the fiery heat between her legs did as well.

Just when Carnan thought she might pass out from lack of air, her breasts exploded free with a mighty crack. Two new islands emerged. Rising, spreading, those verdant tracts of land spoiled and smushed together in the middle until their small canal became a tiny tickling stream. 

"Lookit that, lads! The tree whore's put herself out for us."

As before, the Orcs seized Carnan's new bounty in the name of Zog. Her overripe tits squished beneath them as they converged on dark and twisted weeds sprouting at the center of each isle. Tiny stalks with serrated leaves had the look of sharpness, but the Orcs knew better than to believe the forest spirit had any bite to her bark.

The first Orc to stomp on her scruffy pest-plant teats earned a moan in reward. This worked the others to a frenzy as they kicked, yanked and whipped Carnan's buds. Their boots brought on the worst of it. Pointed tips dug in. Blunt heels ground down. Twisting, rubbing, chafing turned her bushy nipples raw. Abuse wracking her hardy plants and their soiled mounds, she let out a desperate cry.

"Nnnn-!" Carnan shuddered. "No more, masterssss. No more."

"Who said yer allowed to talk?" The ring leader at her mouth chastised. "We're not finished here!"

Carnan sniffled and winced. The stench of Orc spunk had thickened. It coiled up and forced its noxious scent upon her, a low-hanging cloud slipping into her deep dark places. Amber splotches reached her forehead and rounded to form a domino mask. Sap soured to a sickly hue in her veins. Gold flecks sparkled in her wicked eyes. Blind to light. Keen on darkness. Her vision blurred with yearning for dirty, coarse, impure things.

It shook her to her core. The world once glowed with wonders for her. Now, only the grotesque. She saw shriveled petals in place of grand bulbs. Scum consuming clear clean waters. Everything in view of her spirit-eyes was dank and foul as Carnan herself.

Yet her tainted sight became an afterthought when the first shot of splooge landed in her mouth.

Her tongue withered at the glob. Salty and tart, it stung her taste buds as it rolled down the back of her throat. A streak of rot remained to show its path. Then, another burst of semen spewed from an Orc's cockhead and into her pit. Then another. Another. Another. A chain reaction rippled down the line. The vile assault made her tongue flick about for cover.

"It burnssss," she wailed.

"Shut up and take it," the ring leader commanded.

Her tongue settled. Settled and suffered. Orc seed smothered the whole fleshy length. Suddenly, her body adapted. Her buds sizzled, taking on foulness as an acquired taste. A drug. An addiction. Every cell in her mouth screamed for their spunk to slake its thirst. Toxic green slime smutted her lips to match her new craving. More. She needed more.

Of course, Carnan would never admit it. To know they could further humiliate the great woodland spirit by making her want what they forced upon her? It would please these beasts to no end. She left them to think they hadn't corrupted her gaping maw, and lost herself in her shameful soiling.

Until she felt a harsh thwack from below.

Her tits. In the time her mouth became a reeking cum dump, her nipples had grown. Harder, tougher, wider, taller, blow by blow her nasty shrubs jutted into timber peaks. Sharp tips rose higher as new branches formed along the length. These, too, garnered abuse until the dense brown nubs thickened too much for her to feel anything through their many aged layers. The grand tetons towered above the Orcs, unmoved by even their mightiest punches and kicks.

Unfortunately for Carnan, they quickly found an answer to this problem.

"Boys! Get us some hammers."

The first hammerfall shook the very foundation this posse stood upon. They all fought for balance atop Carnan's wobbling bosom. Some resisted. Some collapsed. Yet each slam of head to trunk made the task - and Carnan - easier. No sweetly foul sign proved it better than her moans. Hot and wild, her rank breath blew out in long gusts. The ring of Orcs around her mouth took the hint and abandoned their endeavor, wanking elsewhere. The greatest mass shot their loads up her nostrils, but a few adventurous sorts sought to glue her eyelids shut.

They failed. Merely spackled her eyelashes. Despite this failure, they succeeded in their greater goal of annoying the woodland spirit like little flies buzzing in her face. Her prone, ravaged face. A face she could not defend, letting these insects crawl and slither and dirty it to mock her weakness. She swallowed their secretions between gasps. Caught her breath. Thought she found composure, before a thundering shook the land outside her cesspool and she remembered one of Zog's greatest assets.

Ologs. Dumb, dirty giants with huge wooden clubs stomped across her barren breasts. Their feet left deep impressions. Cheers went up. Clearly, the beasts prepared to strike their first fearsome blows.

She braced herself. It wasn't enough. One. She winced. Two. She shivered. Three. Her legs twitched. Four. She rocked her head. One. Two. Three. Four. One. Two. Three. Four. One two. Three four. One two three four. One two three four. One-two-three-four. One-two-three four. They quickened into a maddening, neverending beat.

"No more!" Carnan begged. "Fire-ed my loins you have. Beat my nipplllles raw. They ache. Need rest from Orc masters."

"Not a chance."

Her tits reached their peak, and still the Orcs smashed through to sapwood. She thrashed in her scummy pool. The smartest of those who smeared her face in spunk abandoned the island while they could. The dumbest suffered for not predicting her throes of lust. Tossing her head, she flung them into the muck. Lighter Orcs swam. Heavier Orcs sank. Pounds of armor sent them to the bottom, resting at her shoulders. 

"Pleasure building. Masters stain Carnan with nassssty mortal thoughts."

Sins of flesh tore apart her chastity like vultures. Picked her mind unclean. What once had no place in her lands had snuck in and made a place for itself. Here in this filth garden, her spirit reached out to feel her ruined home. Every rotten inch fed back to her. Leylines, the wizards called them. Invisible seams of the earth where energy flowed toward a common powerful center. In this place, that center was Carnan, and that energy took the form of corrosive lust. Resist though she might, it didn't stop her pussy from oozing in her bathing squalor.

Nor did it stop Zog from twisting her ties to her forest into something far more sinister and obscene. Something that ripped the ground apart and sprang forth.

Mere days ago, Carnan had the power to torture Zog's legions in toothy cages of wood. His twisting of this skill worked much the same with one important difference. Her vines didn't impale her foes. Her vines cradled them. Through those winding creepers, she massaged their hefty balls. Jerked off their wanting pricks. Each and every one of her lesser masters came to her gentle touch through tendrils wrapped around their bodies and packages like little sex cocoons. 

"Ooooh yes, that's the spot, landfilth."

"Better not give me green balls or you'll regret it."

"Don't forget the tip!"

"Vile, wretched beasts. Your praise sickens Carnan!" she shouted. Sickened, and excited her. She awaited the next crass insult, the next backhanded compliment, the next reminder of her fall. She awaited their words like barbs to her sacred space while roiling her pit.

The throbs. The twitches. The tiny spurts of semen shooting out and soaking into the ground. Unlife called to her with its hardness, its thickness, its tasty scent. Little buds of flowers emerged from her vines and sniffed for the source. Noxious pestweeds, the white-petaled plants were. Their distinctive odor aroused Orc dicks to full mast. Aside from the gagging, Carnan's aphrodisiac served its purpose. Her vines found the Orcs' bulbous tips and slipped all the way down to the shrubbery of their pubes.

Moans went up as Carnan sucked them off. All of them. Hundreds of Orcs across miles of forest savored the pleasures of nature spoiled. Whether they knew the cause mattered not, for Carnan served them anyway. She drained their scrotes. Pumped the seed underground. Tasted it in every fiber of her being. As her morgul-flowers swallowed the Orcs' last bitter drops, she released their tired, aching bodies. Exhaustion pushed them to slumber. Sweaty, snoring, spent, the masses missed their tree whore's mewling pleas.

"You have won, Lord Zog. Let Carnan rest."

She panted in the afterglow of climax. Yellowed skin, browned tendril hair, slimy lips, she exhaled plumes of darkness past cum-stained teeth. Nothing remained of her former luscious greens. The pit robbed her of that beauty. That life.

But merely seeing these changes through Carnan's sour sallow sneer would not satisfy death's midwife. Like all makers and unmakers, the necromancer had a need to see his great handiwork and test its mettle with a true challenge.

"Arise, my foul temptress," Zog commanded. "Your final test awaits."

Carnan groaned. Those few still awake bore witness to her grand unveiling as she sat upright and clambered out of the pit. Sludge burbled down her body in dirty waterfalls. Stripped of bark, stripped of color, her rotted out dress bore huge gashes through which wind tickled her wet skin. Dead brown moss failed to cover her cracks and crevices, where the sludge wound its path into a pool at her feet. Even with these openings, the ragged gown looked positively chaste as it ran from neck to ankles. It made quite an example of her bilious tits, rolling like soft mountains as she heaved. They acted as a cliff, and she moaned to a rush of cold muck soothing her battered trunks. 

When the wind picked up, she shivered and turned her back to Zog.

At any other time, in any other place, turning one's back on their master meant disrespect. Not here. Not when it meant Carnan leaning forward and bending at the knees, revealing her giant cunt through a hole in her skirt. Lush fields of grass overran the valley of her thighs, sparkling with dew in spite of slime dripping off her quim. Though passion tinged her slit brown along its edges, it fought valiantly to preserve what the rest of Carnan had lost.

"You've been holding out, haven't you tree whore?"

"Trees and rivers and sky you break," she answered. "The cycle remains. From decay comes bloom."

Briefly, she felt a twinge of pride. Defiance. A chance to reclaim herself. Then she heard it. A mighty roar. Loud. Fierce. It scorched the winds and set withered foliage aflame. Fear slackened her jaw. Tears of dread wetted the corners of her baleful eyes. She couldn't control her shaking, dust drifting free in a fine mist. She recognized that sound from her battles with the creature.

"We'll see how long the cycle lasts when _he's_ through with you."

Carnan looked over her shoulder at the behemoth. Tall, dark and hot, he approached her from behind with great wings of fire, and armor almost chitinous in appearance. Magma flowed beneath the surface of his earthen crust for flesh. Big long chains dragged from cuffs on his wrists. His four virile horns jutted outward from his head, a prelude of what she would soon find buried inside her.

Tar Goroth had come.

Corruption crept further on her pussy the longer she stared. Flaxen and engorged, the mound lost its verdance to strange new sprouts following the yellow tide. To this awful sensation, Carnan accused, "You said you had no need for Tar Goroth!"

"I said I wouldn't _settle_ for Tar Goroth. I never said anything about giving up my plans for him." The cocky Zog settled against a decrepit tree, watching his puppet steam. "Two thralls are better than one, and after the trouble you gave him, I think you owe him a little revenge."

Her face screwed in abject disgust. A dark power took hold in her throat. It wormed down her chest and around her mouth like roots as she frowned through the agony of her spirit being taken yet again by her master. Nasty words spilled out, off a tongue too filthy and horny to resist. "Plow me, Tar Goroth. Rip apart my pussy and plant your vile seed."

Cloven hooves dug deep as the balrog found his footing. Claws to her hips, he forced her higher then shoved her forward til his slut's rear lined up perfectly with his crotch. A little rubbing coaxed out a beast within that lay dormant for millennia. Untouched. Unsated. Unknown before this day. The tip of something new and different arose from his darkness. Sharp and jagged, the length might have looked like a huge dagger if not for its place and the two massive boulders banging against each other beneath it.

Yet it served the same purpose when he plunged it into her twat.

His chest glowed bright with fire in the middle of his armor. _Her_ chest heaved as her big pallid boobs jiggled from impact. A long stream of flame burst from between his fangs. A dense plume of toxic smoke blew from between her lips. Thus began a fucking the likes of which had never been seen before on Middle-Earth.

A pillar of solid rock, heated for his pleasure, slammed into her squishing wet swampmound. Over. And over. And over. And over. Enough power for a battering ram assaulted her wooded gate and scorched her whole forest along its path. With each thrust, Carnan lost more of herself - and more of her dress.

It broke off in pieces. Dry, shriveled, _dead_ , chunks fell to her feet and revealed ever more skin. Along with a change in color, her bust had grown softer, firmer, as if ready to burst with a single squeeze. Weak yet shapely arms and legs flailed out, designed for looks, not use. Wide birthing hips defied the laws of nature. Dark veins throbbed corruption on her chest. Better to arouse Zog's angry horny hordes. From ripe to rotten, her loss of a dress said much about the state of this pathetic she-tree, but it did not mean lack of attire or markings to aid her harlotry.

Brambles blossomed off her shoulders, winding around her biceps and tits - the first of many places to bear them. One set dangled off her wrists and ankles like chains made to match the iron worn by her balrog lover. Another set made for a twisted black slave collar on her tender neck. Worst of all, a miniskirt of the tight, prickly, painful barbs hung so short and lacking in threads that they did more to mock than cover her. Pain over pleasure. Filth over function. Bondage lingerie exposed the great yellow whore for judgment by her betters - a title held by all but the lowliest of creatures in Middle-Earth.

She rubbed her flat belly, fingers tracing lines along her new balrog head tattoo. The mark of Zog. Impossible to miss thanks to its sheer size, it properly branded her as the necromancer's property. A second tattoo emblazoned across her whole back added further insult to injury with the full leafy wonder of her great tree. A few minor Orc tribal tattoos rounded out the assortment of body blemishes, but the final piece to ruin her image spread like a plague on the dankest, darkest pits of her body.

Morgul-flowers. The noxious white-petaled monstrosities bloomed in her armpits and crotch. As a pale imitation of gnarly tangled pubes, they fumed their sex musk in thick invisible clouds. Bees foolish enough to seek out her bulbs suffered for it, sent astray in a haze of hormonal sleaze.

But bees weren't the only creatures affected by her new slutty scent. 

"Oh!" Carnan moaned as her mate grabbed her hair-vines and yanked hard. "Yes, Tar Goroth. Use me like a lowly beast."

Incensed, Tar Goroth rammed his glowing lava shaft deeper and harder. The hunched over stature of his mate may have offered ease of entry, but it also plumped up her arboreal ass. Full cheeks dulled his full force, cushioning the blow and saving her tortured quim from all out devastation. Which of course, did not sit well with their master.

"Get in there, Tar Goroth! What's one tree whore compared to the might of a balrog?"

Zog's influence certainly had an effect. Goroth sped up. His beefy rock legs made her soft plant thighs quiver. Weak in the knees. Both of them, but moreso Carnan, who needed Goroth's grip on her lank slippery plant-hair to keep from falling. Her pussy steamed into a barren wasteland as his prick burned her baneful bush. Poison and fire. Two common elements in the arsenal of Orcs. Each of Zog's thralls had them, and showed them, avatars of these weapons of war.

It could not last forever. They had a purpose to serve that didn't involve remaining locked in a battle of cocks and cunts for all eternity. As with the time of gods and elves, their rutting needed to end.

In the final stretch, she weakened as he held firm. Her moans and his roars collided, carrying on the winds. She shook harder. Cried louder. Panted like a caragor in heat. Ecstasy made her writhe against Tar Goroth with a stripper's zeal, molesting her own shrubby teats. Sallow, sapped of strength, she ground herself on his cock in a tired mess. Glassy saffron eyes and a slack jaw showed her defeated joy as she came. A steamy sizzle competed with her flower pits for dominion on the air.

If Tar Goroth had been a mortal man, he would have kept using her. But he was a balrog. And a slave. Task complete, he tossed Carnan off him like refuse and drew back into the forest's shadows, leaving the forest spirit to pick up her own pieces.

If she could. She breathed deep. Weathered. Rotten. Ruined. A truly unique scent fumed off Carnan, an unholy mix of swamp and sex to shame and arouse her from slumber same as the most potent smelling salts.

"Landfilth!" Zog barked.

Her sore eyes fluttered. Focus. She needed to focus. Gaze at the little necromancer standing in front of her. Do something about his staff prodding her flushed cheeks. Lightly sighing, she answered. "Yes, master?"

"I'm not exactly versed in the tongue of elves or spirits. You need a new name that suits your new life. Give me one."

Many languages whipped through her smut-addled mind. Quenya. Entish. Black Speech. She settled on something nearest to her older name, a stark reminder of her glorious past and shameful future.

"Nurnan."

Dark wood. Dead wood. It matched her soiled body and toxic stench. The stench of rot. Decay.

"Nurnan," Zog commanded. "Stop being a lazy whore and get off your ass."

Whining, she lifted herself on trembling arms. The very act jiggled her sweaty boobs. Her legs wobbled. Cum dribbled down her aching thighs. She rubbed her chafed nipples, not to comfort them, but because a part of her knew Zog would _love_ to see her wince at the pain. "What do you wish of me?"

"The task is simple. March on Minas Morgul. Spread your foul flowers. Tell all you see about my control over you, your hard fucking by Tar Goroth, and how they can enjoy spoiling your lands if they follow me."

She obeyed. Stomping, she headed toward the valley of Morgul Vale.


	2. Idril's Bane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idril's lust for the palantir and the treasures it can show her is her undoing, turning her into a willing and pitiful servant of Mordor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's chapter 2. Took me a lot longer than I had wanted, a few months just like the Carnan chapter. If you're inclined, here's partial references I used in making this chapter: <https://imgur.com/a/tdtzydg>

It is in Men that we must place our hope.

These were the future words of a wizard offering counsel to an elf Lord whose faith in Man was spent. Where the wizard saw promise, the Lord saw failure. Whole armies of Men warred against Sauron's evil and won against all odds, yet just one man allowed his lust for power to consume him and keep that same evil alive. Strong in body but weak in mind. Their proof cut both ways.

Idril was no man. She knew not a lust for power, had no need to raise armies, rule kingdoms, prove her worth among her or any other kind. Her wants and needs were simple. Quaint, even, compared to the world's would-be kings.

Yet from this simplicity, Idril lusted in ways far more loathsome and pathetic than any man.

"Oh yes! Yeeeeeees! That's the spot right there!"

The palantir rolled in her palm. Dark. Bright. Hot. Its fire burned within the orb and between her legs with enough passion to keep her on her knees. She panted, heart thumping, cunt dripping, body coated in a thick sheen of sweat the likes of which one would expect from a good hard fucking. Only through the palantir's sight could she find what she needed: artifacts. Beautiful, ancient, forgotten artifacts. Relics so obscure that she creamed herself the moment she saw them.

As a former curator of Minas Ithil, she had an eye for such wonders. Two eyes. Roving over cracks and scrapes, filling in the gaps between seen and lost details. Yes, in time she could discern every inch of provenance from her latest find.

Time she did not have. The moment a Ringwraith snatched the palantir from her grasp, her eyes went from drugged out cloudy red seas to pools of blue anguish.

"No!" She rose up with a mournful wail. "You bastard! I wasn't finished."

"You're finished when we say you are, Mîril," the Ringwraith said.

She loathed her new name, but she had no choice. This one kept her tongue silent. Her spirits low. Reminded her that access to the palantir was a gift, not a right, and she had to earn it like any other willing slave of Sauron. Settling into her haunches, she sniffed the orb but dared not touch it.

"I'm sorry, master. I let my sins get the better of me."

The Ringwraith seemed intent to test her, holding the palantir aloft at the tip of her nose. Her bloodshot gaze followed its path left, right, further, closer, like a hound yearning for its treat. Never pouncing. Never whining. Always watching for permission to sate both sets of hungry lips. Once certain the woman could control herself, the wraith let her give it a quick lick and tucked the orb away.

"Tell me, Mîril. What did you find with your lusting quim?"

Fragments of her horny mind pieced together what images it could recall. Her brow wrinkled under the strain. Hers was a frail human mind filled with frail human desires, not built with the great wisdom expected from typical wielders of the palantir. Every use frayed the nerve ends of a brain riding out orgasmic bliss. When at last she could describe what she saw, she moaned it out.

"In... in the great.... ohhhhh great hills of Hobbiton..."

The Ringwraith paced around her. For too long had the One Ring eluded them. Despite its will, it remained lost among hidden cracks and crevices in the world of Man.

"There is a... a..."

The wraith listened closely. Perhaps this time, they would find the ring. Perhaps _this_ time, the gold-digging, treasure-seeking cunt of a woman would coax their prize into view. Of all the forces in Middle-Earth, Man's greed held an uncanny power to bring about their own doom. It was this quality that the One Ring exploited to save itself from oblivion, only to abandon Isildur in his time of greatest need. And here, kneeling before him was the worst of their lot. A woman unable to resist the clarion call of her sloppy wet slit when faced with every chance to redeem herself. Surely the ring would emerge for this greedy little whore.

Or so the Ringwraith thought. In a matter of seconds, his designs for the fall of Man turned to dust.

"... A pipe. Oh, what a sexy pipe. Someone carved it from the first White Tree. Look at the tiny stem. Why, I bet it could fit inside my-"

"Enough!" The wraith bellowed, slamming his fist into a nearby chair. "How is it that you keep failing!? Even our pet wizard offers more than your annoying moans and a mess on our floor."

The wraith moved to leave. Idril would not have it. She could still taste the palantir on her tongue, and she aimed to keep it. Not by force. Not by power. She had subtler means better suited to a weakling and failure such as her. Leaning forward, she clutched his robes and begged.

"Please! If you would only give me the palantir, I could find such wonders the likes of which you've never seen - including the ring! Who better to wield it than one as thirsty as I."

He yanked himself free and glared through the darkness in his helmet. "No. You have molested it enough for one day. Find something else to do with your filthy hands until we call on you again."

Desperate mumblings followed this edict as the Ringwraith flitted off in a trail of smoke and green light.

This left Idril alone to wallow in her disgrace. A pool of her lust cooled between her legs. Another sign of her weakness, same as all that sweat drying on her skin. Not so long ago, she would have scoffed at the idea of ending up in this sorry state. Licking her lips. Rubbing her twat. Breathing in her musk. This was no place for a proud Shieldmaiden and Second Captain of Gondor.

Titles she no longer held. Or deserved.

Composing herself, she stood and wandered through the Great Hall toward a set of double doors lit by hanging torches to each side. Up the steps. Her bare feet slid against tile. Her clammy palms pressed against wood. Sickly pale green light streamed into the room as she pushed the doors open and emerged into the great outdoors.

Into Minas Morgul.

Much had changed about the city from its halcyon days. Orcs and uruks roamed the streets. Caragors roared and rattled their cages next to corpse piles. Smoke polluted once pristine skies. Walls crumbled. Fires raged. Banners flapped on foul winds, bearing a new sigil used by those who conquered and spoiled what remained of the Middle City.

The same sigil she now wore. Its spiky red crescent tattoo ran along her collar bone. Mud smeared around her tits and down her belly into a ghastly skull. Enchantments from a Mystic tribe orc turned the corrupted muck into a brand that held as firmly as any other. If she were a flag, Idril would have shown her allegiance in white on black. Her pale skin required a shade as dark and twisted as her soul.

Yet even without her giant mark of shame, Idril had other means to sully herself. 

Her arms, legs and pits ran wild with hair that would have looked barbaric on a woman in the lands of Man. She no longer had need for such grooming. In fact, her keepers preferred the look. It showed how base women could become when they stopped putting on civilized airs for their kind.

Her head went unspoiled for this very reason. Through her short brown locks, full soft lips, a slight blush on her freckled cheeks, orcs saw the pretty face of a girl in need of tainting - right before their eyes passed down her slender neck to marvel at their great work. Beauty above. Filth below. In this way, Idril became a walking, talking, reeking, fucking example of their power to ruin whatever they wished.

But none of these touches could match what she wore to earn her namesake of Mîril. A name her snaga brethren rarely used, preferring to say it more plainly - as one orc did the moment he saw her standing outside the Great Hall.

"Treasure Slut! Find another shiny to shove up your arse, did ye?"

In the dark, she could deny the crude title with orcs and men who did not know of her lust for the palantir and what it might reveal. She did not have that luxury when they saw her attire.

Warg fur on her back, jeweled rings, gold anklets and bracelets. Coins of Eärnur laced into chains that dangled off her pierced nipples. A Gondorian necklace - a glittery Great Hall keepsake she pined for and often stole as a child - _almost_ served as her most telling disgrace. It conjured memories of when she imagined herself an elegant lady of Gondor in her youth. Exposed her for the uncouth traitor she became as an adult. Though unfit for her, the necklace's green gemstone sparkled all the same, always reminding her of how badly she strayed from her ideals to lust after old trinkets.

Donning that artifact should have been the lowest she could sink. It was not. Another piece held the honor. One she soiled with every step she took down the tower stairs.

"What business is it of yours what I find?" Idril scowled, drawing closer to the jeering orc. 

"You need a raiding party to clear your path, yes? The little coward would hate it dearly if good men saw her pathetic self."

In her heart of hearts, she knew it was wrong to wear such an important piece of history. It did not belong about her waist, hanging between her legs. It belonged on the walls of an archive where great scholars could partake in its richness. She told herself that she took it as a loincloth to save it from burning in some fire pit, but in truth... she loved it. She loved the feel of rough wool and sleek silk against her nethers. A cheap thrill slickened her slit at the thought of its wisdom forever stained by her wetness, its textile warriors and scholars marred into splotchy remnants that hardly resembled their models. Even if someone pried it from her waist and whisked it to better lands, no perfume or cleanser would lift her musk from its layers.

If Gondor's artisans could see their torn tapestry today, they would weep. If Idril herself had found it in this condition just one year prior, she would have decried it as a grave insult to Gondor culture. No respectable, well-minded lady would engage in such sacrilege.

But Idril no longer counted as a lady. She barely counted as a woman anymore. Much less a curator, a vanguard meant to protect and preserve the very thing she now rubbed between her legs to mop up her palantir leavings. The Gondorian necklace may have laid her childhood dreams broken and bare, but it took a tapestry she ruined with her cunt to truly capture her weakness. One smear at a time.

She tried to put that shame out of her mind as she reached the streets. Many places to go. Things to do. Artifacts to find. Passing the orc, she ventured into the rotten shell of her once beloved Minas Ithil.

Its decay plagued her with pangs of guilt, failure, a sense of profound loss. Beyond brick and wood, the city had a special life she held dear. Each building brought its own anguish. In that corner smithy, hammers bashed glowing steel into tough armor fit for a knight. Down that alley, raggedy kids played silly kid games in front of their orphanage - ramshackle even before the invasion. Ghosts of lives better lived haunted these ruins unseen by its new citizens. Memories crept in, reminders of a bustling city she wished she could return to its former splendor.

That was, until an unfortunate itch broke her daze. Slowing, she reached back between her cheeks and scratched. Yet another ungentle trait she acquired. Ladies of Gondor never risked the sight in public, so Idril indulging in it greatly amused Morgul's orcs - including the one chuckling from a nearby doorway.

"What are you looking at?" Idril spat.

"Got a hungry pucker back there, eh? Bet I got somethin that could do it in."

Her lip curled. Much as she hated giving him the satisfaction, she offered a show of raking her nails deeper and deeper in search of that damned spot. "I can scratch my own arse, thank you very much."

"Really. You look like yer havin some trouble."

"I'm fine," she said.

Relief might have come swiftly without her audience. The orc's sniffering meant she fumbled, red-faced, unable to pinpoint where she needed to sate her hairy crack. She wasted a good minute until finally, she pulled her hand out with a grumble and carried on. Leaving the orc to his glee, hoping this late hour meant few others would notice her.

She almost made it too. Mere steps away from the bridge out of Minas Morgul. Then she heard it. Worse than war drums beating from afar. Worse than a hungry Caragor's growl.

"Wake up, boys. Treasure Slut thinks she's goin places without payin the toll."

Treasure Slut. Again. _Their_ words for her, crueler than the Ringwraiths' kindly spoken curse. It stuck to her. The tents. The pits. The bogs. Every path she took, a chorus announced her coming. For when she crossed a pack and left it with their seed spilling off and out of her, she did so with all the fanfare due for a slattern who tried and failed to slip away in the night.

This time would be no different. Orcs, uruks and ologs roused from their slumber. Their armor shifted with loud clangs and soft clinks. Their feet shuffled. Surrounded on all sides, she resigned herself to her fate with a heavy sigh.

"I did not wish to disturb you, masters," she lied. "I can search for relics without an escort."

"You mean dig for garbage," one spouted.

She knew the uruk. Mâku the Judge. He made a sport of tracking her down at the worst possible moment to taunt her, drawing crowds for his heckling. No matter where she went, how fast she ran, he seemed to appear from nothing. How she wished she could slice his throat like Talion did to the countless orcs that hunted him throughout Mordor. Alas, service to the Dark Lord did not permit. 

"Yes, sir. I- hnk!"

Too quick. Her guard couldn't catch the shadow that crept up from behind, slid her tapestry loincloth aside, held her by the waist and plunged his dick in her ass. At first, she resisted. Writhed in his skinny arms for release. Clenched her hole around his turgid shaft. She went limp when she realized who was fucking her. Thin, fast and rough, these traits revealed her mystery assailant as none other than Lorm the Stinger.

Lorm alone had a prick slim as one of his assassin blades, able to slip in with ease and stab away. Raw speed battered her tightness into a loose cavern that simply took it. Grunting in pain to Lorm's grunts of pleasure, she endured his assault by focusing on the one beating in her ears.

"You know we can't let you leave," Mâku said. "Least not without givin you a proper sendoff."

As Mâku prattled on, she could feel Lorm building to his end. His thrusts became more jagged. Undisciplined. Rhythm tossed aside in a bid to hasten his climax. She bounced to the pounding, nipple chains jingling as they swayed. Pretty looks twisting with ugly rage that made her lips sneer, her nostrils flare, her eyebrows drop. 

"I don't need a sendoff or protection, Mâku. I know how to handle myself."

"Yeah, ya do. Heard ya piss yerself and run away soon as ya see a Man. Mighty brave."

She growled at his insults. Coward. Traitor. Terms to hound her with dishonor as likely to wash off as the mud on her tits. Worse yet, she couldn't argue against him. To the orcs, she looked every bit the wuss they imagined. What else could they call this snaga who skulked around midden heaps for forgotten trash, then crouched behind a tree or pillar while they fought Gondor's finest. What _should_ they think when she scurried into some dank hole to hide from Baranor's keen gaze.

As if the orcs knew what she did about records and history. How even one sighting of her would lead to an entry in some musty tome, a caricature of her nasty form drawn beside a thorough recounting of her life and fate. She did not want the world to remember her as this cautionary tale, a dirty little nothing in the sort of stories that parents told their children before bed. She would not turn her father's betrayal of Minas Ithil into a legacy.

At least, not among the free peoples of Middle-Earth. But among the orcs...

"Lookit the whore squirm!" Lorm jeered. "Whoda thought Castamir blowin his load wherever he could stick it would make _this_ little jizzmop."

"I am not my father's daughter!"

"No, you're worse." Mâku approached. Fat fingers grasped her chin, forcing her to stare up at him, from bushy gray beard to large tricorn hat. "He saved yer life, but all you do is whine and shove treasure in yer cunt. Bet he'd be right proud."

Lorm quickened his pace. She shuddered, wincing as he fucked the buried itch into a throbbing pain. Any time she arched her back, any time she twisted in his grasp, he held on tighter. No escape. Her chains rattled louder and louder until, finally, it happened. He came. His thick load shot deep. And as he withdrew and shoved her off, she felt the sticky mess tangle up her ass hairs. 

"How's that feel, wench?" Lorm taunted.

"Hot!" Idril cried, fanning her chafed hole with her hand. Its slight breeze cooled her cockburn ever so slightly. Not enough to cure the pain. It never did, and she had countless nights of sticking her arse in the air as she slept to prove it. But it was better than-

"That so? Lucky you, I got jus the thing for what ails ya."

Not enough time to think. Mâku grabbed her by the wrist, yanked her close, put his arm over her shoulders and forced a bottle to her lips. She acted on dumb instinct and opened her mouth. Her mistake. When she did, some of the nastiest, goopiest black swill she ever drank oozed over her tongue. Its taste stung so much worse than her pucker, little nettles for drops soaking in and torching each tiny bud. She spluttered. Shook her head. The grog would not be denied. It pushed onward, invaded and clogged her throat until it settled in her stomach like a rock.

Weight wasn't its only trait. The liquid lump doused her gut in alcohol more potent than all the spirits of Man. It hit hard and swift, weakening her muscles, blurring her sight. A heavy growl demanded more, reminding her why few Gondorians dared to imbibe the mystery brew: they feared what they might become. That they might behave like orcs, losing a fight for their bodies to the wilds of drunk uncouth stupidity.

And they were right to fear it. Squeezing her muddy boob, rubbing her horny slit, a new wave of depravity washed over this crass masterpiece of a woman. Black dribbles streamed down her chin and neck as she greedily gulped her cure to the last. Mâku hadn't lied. Under its power, her cockburn dulled to a pinprick. But now both sets of her lips tingled anew.

Gasping for breath as the bottle left her, Idril slurred whatever words popped in and out of her boozy brain. "Ugh. Fuckin... pussy needs ta calm down."

"Jus' the way ya like it, dontcha Slut?"

A smack on the back from Mâku knocked her to the ground. A blush. A pout. She reacted as best she could for a Treasure Slut. Or Mîril. Or any name they chose to call her except Idril, for that name held too much beauty and pride for her to ever bear again.

A truth she embraced with more language to match the foulness wafting off her tongue. "Mouth tastes like shit. Gimme some water."

"For you? Pah! We know what whores want ta chug, and it ain't water."

Idril's nose scrunched as Mâku pushed his dick against it, tip to tip. He advanced while she retreated like a coward, only stopping when she ran into his well-placed ambush. Two shafts pressed against her neck. Sweaty gravid balls flopped onto her forehead. She was surrounded. First, she failed as a daughter. Then, as a curator. Now, a warrior. They routed and outflanked her at every turn, trapping the would-be Shieldmaiden. She scowled and glared at what she knew was coming - soon cumming - in from all sides. 

"You'll pay fer this," she spouted.

"Oh, we mean to. And a fair price at that."

Coins clinked in a pile between her legs. Mere change. Nothing like the brilliant coins on her chains. She counted its cheap copper by sound, hardly worth a nip of ale. She would have groused about the disrespect next to her treasure-laden body if she did not have other concerns. Like the orcs wanking around her.

Their musk clouded her senses, growing thicker and hotter as they went at it. A sickly squishing uncommon to Man joined their grunts and panting. A cacophony of perversion assaulted the fallen soldier. Warning signs of a fate she feared yet knew she had to bear. She flinched early and often, playing with herself to ease the burden of her grog-induced lust all the while.

"Say Slut, what do ya make of _this_ treasure?"

Idril forced her eyes open. This was common among her orc masters and peers. They demanded appraisals. Not just for their pride, but to savor her pain. To watch her fume and grimace while assessing their length, warmth, girth and any other features of note. Taking his massive prick in her tiny hands, she set herself to the task hanging before her.

Which, unlike Idril, wasn't easy. As a curator, she knew how to describe the details and history of an object placed in her care. As a drunk whore of Mordor, the smart, sophisticated verbiage of her old calling abandoned her when she needed it most.

"It's... it's fuckin big?" Idril stammered. "And heavy. Bet ya could knock me out with it, it's so uhh, big and heavy."

"I thought you was an expert! Tell us somethin' we don't know."

Idril blushed. Despite all the times she went through this hazing, it never sat well with her that a lifetime of learning could fall apart with a single swig of grog. A true master of her domain could do her duty in any state. Knowledge would flow through her muddled thoughts to impart wisdom of the ages, guided with a keen sense of Middle-earth life and culture. She had no excuse. Something, anything, that sounded the part would do.

"Gondor ladies ain't used ta cocks this big. They'd have ta fuck a horse. Some of 'em would, too, if they saw what yer packin'."

"Hear that boys?" Mâku boasted. "Treasure Slut says wimmen need horses cause their men ain't good enough. Buncha horny twats."

Amid the laughter of orcs jacking off in her face, Idril weighed Mâku's hefty pair. Forty grams each, a number she consigned to memory. Orcs cared not for the particulars, whether one testicle sagged lower or by how much. All that mattered to them was form and function - and a dash of stroking more than their pride certainly helped.

Which she did. Grabbing his shaft, she dipped her fingers into the dense soggy weeds of his pubes and pumped. Spasms beneath his sallow flesh turned her task into a two-hander challenge. This should have been simple. But no. She wrestled the organ with all her might. Brought every ounce of her shieldmaiden training to bear against a worthy foe flopping in her grip like an eel.

No use. Bested by the behemoth, her tired muscles surrendered to its will. What followed was nothing short of slavery. Her weak arms slowed and sped up to a rhythm their new master decided. Pull to the bulb. Push to the base. Loosen on the upstroke. Squeeze on the downstroke. Strict orders told them when and where to move, relayed in little twitches that only a good servant would notice.

Everything she learned in Minas Ithil should have prepared her for much greater enemies than a single giant orc dick. It had no mind, no cunning, only raw lust to guide its actions. It beat her all the same. On this day, her strength failed.

Defeated even in this, Idril sighed and gave Mâku his next round of ego boosts.

"Dick's stronger than I'll ever be. Keeps threatenin' ta blow a load on me, but it's holdin' out better'n most men would. Might be cause it's all slimy n' rough."

Ducking under her wrists, she took a deep breath and parted her elbows. The comforting scent of her armpits faded as she approached his musky crotch. So sharp. So dense. She almost fainted, color draining from her cheeks and mind swimming in his masculine stench.

As an unwilling connoisseur of cocks, she had a process she needed to follow. Sommeliers swished bits of wine in their mouths. Chefs sampled their dishes before serving. A year of practice taught her the right way to judge an orc's package: starting at his balls.

Closing her eyes, she puckered her quivering lips and kissed. Not a brief peck, either. She _buried_ herself in his sack. Rubbed her cheeks against his wrinkly orange skin. Pubes slipped up her nostrils, tickling toward a sneeze she couldn't afford. Every whiff was a dare. Could she stifle the urge and savor his heady aura without passing out into his hot orc knackers? Could her nose _handle_ what her worthless arms could not? If she wanted to salvage what remained of her reputation as a curator, she had to act quick. With a loud wet smack, she left her dark red calling card.

But that was only part of the test. From her mark, she pressed her tongue to Mâku's scrote and licked along his length. Bumps and pulsing veins added texture to a story of salty spunk. Once she reached the tip, she couldn't help but breathe good and hard on his bulb. Truly, she knelt before the most magnificent specimen she ever had the honor to meet. In fact, it bore such splendor, such majesty, such unrivaled heft and warmth and fragrance, that she could scarcely believe it allowed her to touch it. She bowed her head in respect.

Yet all good things came to an end.

The best curators knew a good tale had twists and turns. Idril found hers. With a disgusted shiver at his taste, she regaled her audience with what wonders a wasted Treasure Slut could glean from Mâku's brimming boulders.

"There's a sayin' for Gondor wimmen: be careful whose dick gets stuck in ya. They might want ta fuck this nasty piece, but it'd rip 'em up inside." She spouted these lines with a sureness found only in the sleaziest alleys of Minas Tirith. "It's worse if ya blow yer load in 'em. Their wombs ain't made for orcs. A month in and-"

Idril had many words left to butcher. Mâku's prick didn't care. As her master, it decided when she should shut her trap - and it did so here. With a single flex, it jammed itself between her big fat lips and toward the back of her throat. Its girth strained the ex-warrior's mouth to its fullest. Gagged her til mere hums and moans mumbled through the tiniest of gaps.

She sniffed. Read his smell like a soothsayer before leaves. Any minute now, the rough scrape of her teeth would bring about an end she received nightly since her fall.

"Get ready, wench," Mâku spouted.

Then it happened. He pulled out. Normal men had pitiful offerings compared to the mighty Mâku, who blasted his seed across the whole of Idril's face. Not a shred of this canvas went unshamed. It soaked into her eyebrows, clung to her lashes, blinding her as it drowned her faint freckles in a sea of viscous spunk. Every day, she washed this muck off til not a drop remained. And every day, some orc spoiled her pristine girlish looks and sent her off to show the lads her new white mask. 

If only her torment ended there. Though she could not see, she felt fresh strands fly and splatter anywhere they could find among her nakedness. Dripping off her earlobes. Gunking up her hair. Wadding in her dank pits. She heard orcs shuffling, trading places as the spent made room for those with more to add to her layers. When the cavalcade ceased, Idril sat there, drenched an army's hatelust for her. Sheets of it oozed down her body, collected at her chin, leaving her a ruined mess which even the wise wizards of Middle-Earth might mistake for a slime creature that crawled from the foulest cesspools of Mordor.

She certainly spoke like one.

"More. Mooooooooore," Idril burbled.

"If ya want more, we'll give ya more!"

War drums beat. The earth quaked with pounding footsteps. Tremors of this scale and a theme song to match did not come from the land. Few of Sauron's brood deserved such a grand entrance. Even through the swampland of her head, she could tell who had come. A drunkard's dread swept through her heart and loins when a massive hand grabbed her torso and proved her fears true.

"Olrok! Olrok! Olrok!"

Their chant announced the arrival of their hero, Olrok the Smasher. An olog of high renown. His power demolished countless keeps, wiped out swaths of soldiers in one blow, and turned the tide of battles too many times to count. He lacked speed, but in concert with Mâku and Lorm, his failings balanced out in what became the Terrible Trio. And now, he was here to claim his spoils of war.

As Olrok lifted Idril high, he exposed her worst kept secret: the Evil Eye. Its flames issued down her thighs from that great fissure at its base. Only here did her body remain bare, its hairs burned away like so much scorched earth. Some orcs tried to claim it. They paid dearly. For unlike the skull painted from breasts to belly, this tattoo served as a vital warning. Few creatures could take the raw heat of her corrupted quim.

Few except Olrok. 

The moment he speared her on his cock, Idril let out a horny wail. Passions stirred as fiercely as ravens and bats rushing from nearby trees. They had an escape. She did not. Her chains rattled around Olrok's clenched fist. A short jerk affirmed his grip, and her place at the mercy of it.

"Feel that, Slut?" Olrok said. "If ya try anything, I'll give ya a good yank."

How could she? The massive log split her neat and wide. While her drunkard claims for Mâku mainly served his inflated sense of pride, _this_ piece truly could tear a normal woman apart from the inside. She was no longer normal. Exposure to the palantir granted her inhuman resilience where it counted most. If an orc or beast wanted to fuck the prone Mîril, her hips would allow. Her womb would stretch. So long as they proved worthy.

Which Olrok did. His other hand pumped her along his curve.

"Alright, boys! Let's go for a walk."

**********

From a pile of slumbering orcs, a figure emerged. A lucky midnight rain had washed her clean, yet hours trapped under the sweaty mass of green, orange, grey and black bodies left her with an unholy stench that wafted sex for miles on the strongest of winds. With a final push, she splashed into a puddle and rose to assess the damage.

Her loincloth remained. Her skull sigil, unmarred. Her nethers sizzled Olrok's seed into a fine mist as they tightened, ready to be defiled once again. Semen still sweltered in her pits and from her crack, preserved amongst the hairs in pockets too obscure for last night's showers to reach.

Her legs wobbled. The rest of her did not bear the same power as her most pillaged jewel. A few weak steps and she collapsed.

But if she knew what skulked atop the pile from whence she came, Idril might have put in a little more effort. It wasn't until the creature landed on the warg fur draping her back and grabbed her chains that she found some vigor.

"Get off me. Off!" She shouted. "I don't have time for more orc games."

"Games, no. You will takes us to the Precious!"

She did not need this. Her head pounded. Her ass ached. Her quim burned. Wet, raw and tired, Idril meant to toss the imp when he gave a tug. Tendrils of pain snaked across her chest. A couple more for good measure and she stopped resisting. 

"AGH! Okay, okay you little fucker, I give up. So I'm to be your mare. Tell me then, where would you have me go?"

The creature settled onto her shoulders. His ratty loincloth flapped over her neck. His dirty feet dangled over her breasts. In truth, she planned to buck her unwanted rider the first chance she got. Until the secret he whispered in her ear gave her pause.

This thing. This... Gollum... knew where to find it. _It_. The highest prize sought by her masters. Glittery and gold, with lovely etchings exposed only by flames. She imagined finding the ring. Shoving it in her snatch. Letting it drop into her palm. Grinning, as her lust revealed its secrets.

A fever dream that broke when Gollum firmly pulled on her reins. "Ow!"

"Leave! Now!" he insisted.

"Where am I to-"

"Shire. Baggiiiiins."

Her blood ran cold. Maps and measures popped into her head. Over one. Thousand. Miles. On foot. Shaking off the pure shock of his demand, she cleared her throat. "Surely you want a real horse for such a journey. If I had to carry you that far, it would take-"

He snapped the chains taut again. This one sent her onto hands and knees, seething but cowed. Biting back an endless stream of swears, she stood and trotted northwest. Toward Gondor. Toward Rohan. Toward Dunland, Isengard and Bree, where Men could witness one strange creature riding another and tell tales that echoed for all of time.


End file.
